


How to Pick-Up a Petrelli

by katers007



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-11
Updated: 2010-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-08 21:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katers007/pseuds/katers007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can learn a lot about a person when you meet them half-dressed." A missing moments fic set during "Hiros"  that answers this burning question: what does a flying politician and time-travelling geek talk about when carpooling to Vegas?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Pick-Up a Petrelli

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlas_mom](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=darlas_mom).



> Many thanks to missbreese for the read through and for being an awesome sounding board. The dialogue at the beginning is taken from the episode "Hiros."

You can learn a lot about a person when you meet them half-dressed. For one thing, if you place an order using a vocal tone that lets the wait staff know you can still pay, they won’t necessarily kick you out for being slightly handicapped in the shirt and shoes department. I’d like to say they simply know who I am, but the average American citizen is as likely to recognize an out of state congressional candidate as they are to offer a helping hand to a stranger in need.

Meaning, not fucking likely.

There’s no response to my request to borrow a cell phone. No matter. I can’t say I blame them. This way there is no risk of theft and they get a few extra seconds to gawk at the show. In light of the events of the past twenty-four hours, I might welcome the simple inaction inherent in masses.

Maybe not.

What I need is to think, but I don’t need to take a moment to do so. I smile as I walk to a seat, request coffee and a shirt, notice the people slowly return to their meals and the waitress hover nearby. These interactions I could pull off in my sleep. All the while I replay last night in my mind, with cold precision slicing both the enticing and enraging parts open and letting them bleed over each other, pooling together and filling in the gaps until whole possible scenarios form.

“Sugar?” The waitress’s amused drawl draws my attention to her.

I’m not certain whether it’s an offer or an address, but I simply smile and bank on the latter. “Just a paper would be great.” Staring at that rather than into space is less conspicuous. … at least as inconspicuous as a man in his pajamas in public could be. My smile widens. “Access to a phone, even better.” After a beat she shrugs, hollers something indecipherable to her companion behind the counter like all good movie diner workers do, and waves me to the corded phone in the corner.

The voice on the receiving end is unflappable, as though its heard worse morning-after stories than this. Considering it’s my campaign manager and I only employ the best, I suspect that really is the case. The questions I’m given are already half-formed answers:  
_’You’re currently at…’_  
_’You’re going to…’_  
_’What you need is…’_  
The conversation ends with neither a bang nor a whimper, merely a click which is far more reassuring. Things are getting done. Unfortunately, I still have time to kill.

The paper beckons and I bury myself in it. I search for any clue no matter how far fetched, not noticing someone popping up beside me until they convert the three feet of personal space rule to centimeters. I look up into a round, excited face. “Can I help you?”

A hand thrusts out as the man says in a heavily accented tone, “Hiro. Hiro Nakamura.”

I catch the hand in a shake, more afraid he’s going to knock something off the table – and onto me - otherwise. I wait a beat for him to offer more, like an explanation for his approach, but he’s clearly waiting for me to speak. “Oh. Nathan Petrelli.”

The man tries the name out. “Petrelli. Nathan. Very nice to meet you.”

Maybe I didn’t give people here enough credit, perhaps he’s a supporter. “Thank you.” I smile obligingly, returning to my paper. Not the best circumstances under which to meet a fan, but I’d take it in lieu of, say, kidnappers.

A whisper that is really anything but then escapes the man. Leaning in closer he adds, “Flying man.”

… I thought too soon. I’ll take kidnappers. Kidnappers all around.

I freeze, but he doesn’t notice as he blathers on, accentuated with a hand thrust clear across my face. “Oh ... you fly. I see you. Whhshh!”

He did _not_ just do that. I think of Peter telling me to assume the best in others and wonder if a mental kick in his direction is enough to make him stumble wherever he really is.

I hate Nevada.

And diners.

And… everything.

Smiling tightly I nod at the waitress, signaling I’d like if not a blunt object then the check. “Thank you.” To the man beside me, though still not looking at him, I respond in my finest press tone, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Public speak for, _’You’re obviously wrong if not deranged, I suggest you go with the former before I ensure everyone will assume you’re the latter.’_

Clearly there’s a language barrier because he keeps going. “Oh, it's okay. I keep secret.” Looking around with a conspicuousness that’d make Bond villains feel subtle he slightly lowered his voice to add, “I bend time onto space. Teleport-o into future.” A smile I hadn’t thought capable of widening somehow does across his face as he says with respectful and prideful awe, “We are both special.”

He exudes glee, the emotion mingling with the reality around us and entering me as only a feeling of unease. Which is easily enough converted to dismissiveness. “All righty, then.”

There’s more. The kid is persistent, I’ll grant him that. His voice gets more forceful as he says, “Oh, I--I go to New York. I see future. Um ... Big boom goes there. Bad for many people. Boo-khashhh!” He flings his arms out wide to accentuate the sound effect.

Silent film stars gestured with less gusto than him. Growing impatient I start to raise my hands to quell his pantomimes before reasoning that publicly grasping another man while I’m dressed in pajamas and with him making explosive sounds might merely make the situation worse. I opt for insistently shushing him. “I can see where that might be a problem.”

“Don’t worry.” He pauses then while pushing his glasses back up his nose, though whether it’s from genuine need or for dramatic effect I can’t tell. He’s painfully unself-conscious enough for it to be the former, yet proud enough for it to also be the latter, as though he’s rehearsed moments like this before mirrors in the past. Or when talking with imaginary friends, who knows. In any case, he finally finishes with stating, “I stop it. Am hero.”

I find myself unable to resist grinning back, raising my coffee cup to him slightly. “Lucky us.” Just then a car honk can be heard, and twisting in my seat I see what I already expected, a limo parked outside. My ride’s smart enough not to enter in suits and cause more stares. Setting down the mug I say, “Better go,” and start to head for the door. What I attribute to simply a moment of pure whimsy, of indulging another’s delusions for once, I stop and turn back to him. “In this future that you see, you don't happen to know whether or not I win the election, do ya?”

He stops for a moment to think about it, mumbling, “Yes, um ... Petrelli. Uh-huh. Nathan.” A candle of recognition flickers over his head as he starts to clap his hands in excitement. “Ah, hai, hai, hai! Yes! I know you. Nathan Petrelli. Election. You win. Very big win. Lando-slido.”

A chuckle escapes me; the kid does grow on you when he’s predicting your success, however crazy he is. “Yeah.” After giving his shoulder a pat I head out again. “I gotta get back to Vegas.”

“Uh, give me ride-o, please,” he calls out. I turn and look questioning at him as he proceeds back to his safety niche of miming, this time making the motions of turning a steering wheel. “Ride-o.” One hand motions honking a horn, replete with sound effect. “Boo boo.”

“… sure.” If Precious Moments figurines came to life, they’d be him. Knowing the little I do of him, he’d probably take that as a compliment. Still, he’s harmless, and despite the morning – or maybe because of it – I’m feeling charitable. Or at least not entirely selfish. “Well, what the hell?” I motion for him to come along and watch him jump off his stool and grab his suitcase. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Hiro Nakamura.”

Since he doesn’t seem offended that I hadn’t listened much to him the first time around, I question further as I open the door, “Where you from?” I can’t recall if he’d said so before or not.

He ducks out the door while replying. “Tokyo, Japan.”

“Ah.” Following him I add, “Never been there.” I keep my sentences simple, hopefully easy to understand.

The limo sits before us, the driver’s side window smoothly rolling down. “Mr. Petrelli.” The limo driver is a tall, well-built man dressed in a suit. Even sitting inside the car he appears urgently indifferent, a clear sign he’s also a security guard. I’m not sure if my manager’s trying to say I need protection or that I can’t be trusted to stay out of trouble.

Yes, there _is_ a difference.

The fact that he has a right to think either at the moment makes my fists curl in imaginary revenge, wanting to choke that blonde bitch and slap myself. Smiling tightly I nod. “You made good time.” Gesturing at my companion I add, “We have one more passenger.” I see the driver’s eyes flick over to Hiro, who waves and offers his hand through the window. After a beat, the driver offers a firm handshake back.

“Very nice to meet you,” Hiro says, and I can’t tell if he’s partly bowing in greeting or having to lean slightly over to reach the other man’s hand. Perhaps it’s both, although most people aren’t really deserving of the credit of juggling multiple motives.

Damn I’m in a foul mood. I watch Hiro then puff his chest up as he cheerily adds, “Hiro Nakamura. Very kind of you to helping, Mister…?” He infuses the question with an underlying one of _’Are you special, too?’_

The driver doesn’t even blink. “Bob Marley. I’m here, so every little thing’s gonna be all right.”

I simply can’t imagine how I always find the sarcastic people working for me. I smile, but step in. The kid doesn’t get it and there’s no need to ridicule, especially when there’s more important matters to take care of. “Not that this doesn’t make a statement, but I’m hoping you were told to bring a change of clothes.”

Bob – I can’t read his nametag and just go with it – nods. “Hanging up in the back, sir.”

“Great.” I pull the suit out, clap a hand on Hiro’s shoulder and reassure, “Be right back. Maybe Bob can play some of his tunes for you while I change.” I head back inside, faintly hearing Hiro clamor inside the vehicle and ask, “You play?”

My entrance this time inside the joint isn’t as grand, the public already waiting for a more impressive follow-up than a mere retread of past events. I’m not certain the image of me now suited up will overtake the diners’ first impression of me in pajamas. I reason that’s not necessary a bad thing. Vote Petrelli. He works out.

The suit’s clean and sharp, dark grey with a crisp white button down. I knot the tie with ease, watching myself in the mirror as I dress up. I don’t get many chances to tie my own tie when I’m not on the road. Heidi long ago claimed ownership over that action, enjoying it as most women seemed to. Screw the biological clock, what women really have engrained in their genetic codes is a love of tying men’s ties.

I wonder how many imagine the ties are nooses or leashes while they do so. It’s better to wonder on that than on how they most likely all learned how to do it from their daddies.

God I miss her right now. I’ve missed her for six months.

Fully changed, I stare at the pajama bottoms now in hand. As I wonder what to do with them I fold them neatly, as smoothly creased as possible considering they’re wrinkled from use. Then I dump them in the nearby trash can. Fuck it if someone roots them out and goes on “Sixty Minutes” with them or puts them on Craig’s List.

How sick am I that I briefly wonder how much they’d go for?

Exiting the men’s room I cross purposely towards the door, pausing at it to give the wait staff a gracious smile. “Thanks for your hospitality,” I say before slipping out to the limo.

Hiro sees me coming and opens the door, leaning out as I come closer. “You look very different.” He over enunciates it, diff-er-ent, rather than slamming all the syllables together, diff-rent, as most in America do. I wonder how long it’ll take for that to change, until he’ll say it like everyone else. He already acts like he hasn’t the time to breathe, let alone draw words out. Although I can’t see him doing that simply to fit in.

I’ve known him an hour and already drawing conclusions. I’d say I need sleep, and I do, but it’s really not crazy. There are lots of tricks to reading people, and Hiro’s more than an open book. He’s... a fucking pop-up book.

God I need sleep.

But I do think I’m right.

“Your mind is funny?” His question snaps me out of my slight daze. I shake my head slightly, clearing it. I wonder how long I was zoning, if we’re hopefully close to civilization and damage control. “Pardon?”

His head tilts slightly towards the left as though balancing out the angle mine settled in, regarding me. “You smile. But didn’t say anything.”

Oh. “Was I thinking of something funny?” I ask, seeing him nod. I shake my head again. “Not really. Just everything.” I know that answer is vague and macabre, and I let him wrestle with it as the car lapses into silence. I stare ahead, feeling him glance at me several times though not daring to ask what I knew he must want to know. I’m infinitely glad that for all his sarcasm Bob was professional enough to already have the partition up that separates driver from passengers. The last thing I want anyone to hear are inquires like _’How long have you played Daedalus? Does anyone know? Do you ever sprout feathers and molt?’_

Long moments stretch out until I hear his intake of breath and brace myself to deny when he says, “Do you have family?”

“What?” The word slips out in surprise before I can stop it. I look at him, hating to be caught off guard and automatically wary.

I see him grasp for words. “Family. Parents. You have here?”

“No,” I answer flatly. I see him deflate and after a moment offer, “Not here.” I say it grudgingly, in a tone that doesn’t invite further pressing.

I should have known Hiro clearly hasn’t enough experience with invitations to anything to be able to tell when to graciously decline them. “Where?”

“My family’s in New York. Brother, mother, wife, kids.” I list as though reading a police rap sheet, each one of them a story too long to wade into any further than the bare facts.

I see his face light up. “New York.”

Cutting in before he can do his bomb impression again I say, “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

Of course he can’t leave it alone. “Are they like you?”

I think of Peter, not wearing a tie, easing people into death. Of Heidi, daring us both not to see past the disability. Of my mother, proudly clinging to what she could even as parts of her life slipped through the cracks. Of last night, and who else might screw me over and why. “No. They’re nothing like me.”

Sometimes I’m so good I even believe myself.

“You don’t like talking about them,” is Hiro’s Einstein observation. I turn to glare at him only to be stopped short by the look on his face. It’s understanding, empathetic.

I want no part of it. I shrug, “I have a headache.”

“Me, too,” he confides, without any semblance of desiring sympathy. His words are an offering, a bridge, and I wonder if he’s alone here.

I can’t help it, even without trying he makes me feel like shutting him up would be the equivalent of kicking a less competent Lassie. “You meeting someone in Vegas?” At his slightly blank look I amend, “Where we’re going?”

“Oh.” He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and says with surprising stubbornness, “No. Ando went back. Good riddance.”

I smile at the colloquialism. “Who’s Ando?”

“He’s my friend.” I wonder if it’s a language gap or whether Hiro still considers this person a friend despite whatever falling out had occurred.

“Yeah? What happened that made your buddy split?” I ease slightly down in the seat, relaxing, not even having realized I was still tense. Focusing on someone else for awhile isn’t a bad way to go.

Looking away, Hiro takes a beat before turning back and saying quietly, “He’s nothing like me, either.” He doesn’t sound very convincing. Well, it takes practice.

Offering a smile I say, “Well, what can you do.” Blunt as it may be, I always found simply sucking up bad situations a valid course of action.

Hiro blinks at me. “Save him.”

“Right. Well, that’ll show him.” I try to keep derision to a minimum.

A faint, briefly smug look crosses Hiro’s face, an expression I’ve some experience with. “It _will._’ I wonder who else it’ll show up in his mind. His features soon smooth over and he adds, “But that is not why.”

It’d be reason enough for most. “It’s just a bonus that comes from saving the world? Proverbial icing on the cake of life?”

His brow furrowed. “I do not understand.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I wave it off. Really, it doesn’t. The appreciation of wise-assing isn’t something one really learns. It's one trait I'm more than happy to have been born with.

“But you said it.” Well, he had a point there.

“I say a lot of things,” I explain. “Comes with the job.”

“Like flying?” His eyes brighten, I almost think he’s teasing.

“No.” Well. “Unless it’s in planes. I travel a lot.”

I watch him turn to gaze out the tinted windows, at a world he’d not known existed until a few days ago if what he’s said is true. It's odd to realize I know what someone like him is feeling in any way, shape, or form. The distraction is welcomed when he breaks the silence with, “Do you like it?”

I nod, then realize he can’t see me. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do. I like being on the go. Working towards something.”

“To the lando-slido,” he finishes, turning back to me.

“That’s the plan.” I look over his shoulder, seeing civilization, sweet gaudy prostitution-ridden tackiness of bliss civilization, enveloping us as we left the undeveloped desert behind. “What’s your plan?”

“To – “

“Save the world, yeah. But how?” Focusing back on him I see his determination is met in equal measures with an absolute loss on how to act on his heroic drive.

“I do not know,” he admits, then adds, “But I will.”

“Yeah.” Crazy.

Levelly he points at me for emphasis. “You, too. You help already.”

“Sorry.” I already have one hand on the door latch, not wanting the conversation to come full circle. I steer the topic off road. “Got the wrong Petrelli. My brother’s the one who plays hero. Mostly with bedpans.” The mental image of him and Peter playing hero is a saccharine buddy movie I don’t need reeling through my mind. Moving on. “But good luck and everything.”

He nods, then returns a smile I spread across my face. “You, too.”

I wonder if he’s learned to fake a smile so well in the short time he’s known me. There are worse things to teach through personal experience. _’Hey kid, if a blonde Amazon sidles up to you and wants to trade tonsil massage tactics, take a knee and let me share a story with you.’_ It’s not as if such experience can be passed directly on to my sons or penned into an autobiography. _’Chapter Five, to sum: make sure you kick her ass outta bed right after.’_

That’s the _least_ I could have done in retrospect, but imaginary insults as revenge are a pointless indulgence. Enjoyable, but pointless, at most just a starting place. I itch to get out and finish things here. Soon after thinking this the car rolls to a stop in the casino’s parking lot. At least inanimate objects seem to have the good sense to listen to me this morning. My mind leaping ahead, I smile at Hiro. “Back safe and sound. Let’s go,” I start to get out, then pause, the politician in me taking over once more. Graciously I add, hand on the door jam, “Hey, how would you say that in Japanese?” Regardless of race or culture, people always like showing off what they know. A universal constant to count on.

“You want to say how to get out?” he asked.

Not exactly, but as imagined that would come in handy in multiple languages. I laugh for a moment, and marvel that I can over anything at present. Misplaced humor, always a fine rebound source. “Sure, why not. Please.”

He tells me, the unusual tones evoked with warm enthusiasm as he finishes with a smiling, “Dozo.”

I repeat what I hear, stumbling over the words, then pause. “And ‘dozo’?”

Looking directly at me he nods. “It means please.” With a gesture he adds, “You also said that.”

“That I did.” A beat, then I smile. “Grazie. Means thanks in Italian.” I hear the driver’s door open and follow suit, telling him, “I’ll get it.” As I move  aside I gesture for Hiro to follow me. Trying out my newly learned Japanese, the only word I clearly manage is ‘dozo.’

It doesn’t matter, Hiro still beams at me. His excitement is back in full force. Exiting the limo he shouts, “Vote Petrelli!”

A chuckle escapes me as I offer my hand. “Early and often.” His handshake is surprisingly strong, and to contrast with the vigorous shaking he softly adds, “Oh ... up, up, and away.”

“Absolutely.” I manage to speak with conviction, another useful skill. He turns to grab his bag and we part ways, the encounter already receding to my memory’s recesses after one final reflection.

First motion when elected to office, stop exporting comic books.


End file.
